


scars

by ChasingRainbows



Series: learning, healing, growing [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, M/M, but rich has a crush on michael, could be considered intimate instead of romantic, does michael like him back?, honestly this is completely platonic, it's a Bonding Moment, platonic expensive headphones - Freeform, probably but this isn't about them getting together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRainbows/pseuds/ChasingRainbows
Summary: The SQUIP left scars, invisble unless you've had a SQUIP yourself. Michael doesn't know.And then he does.





	scars

**Author's Note:**

> posted this on tumblr a little while ago and i decided to post it here. it looks weird on my laptop asdkfjlg  
> based off of an hc @statistical-songs told me about and a little scenario we came up with! this is my first fic so uhh,,,enjoy!!

When Rich finally comes back to school, his scars are shocking (hah). Not just the burn scars. The SQUIP scars too. The ones that have his veins permanently lit up in garish neon, lightning running down his skin and through his bones.

They stare when they see him. He doesn’t wonder why.

Barely an inch of him is left unmarred in some way. Regular eyes see his burns. Perceptive eyes see his trauma. SQUIP eyes see the leftover wires he’d clipped. They see evidence of his stubbornness.

Everyone with a SQUIP sees them. Everyone with a SQUIP has them. They don’t question the echoes of electricity left on his body. They don’t question because they already know.

Rich didn’t listen. Rich didn’t obey.

He resisted for awhile. Then he got sick of feeling like he stuck a fork in a toaster and used the toaster as a bath bomb. He got sick of degradation and headaches and still being a goddamn _nobody_.

So Rich listened. Rich obeyed. Rich faded away.

Jeremy snapped him out of it.

Jeremiah Heere. A loser. A geek. A nerd. Whatever. The next person to fall for the siren call of an easy life where someone smarter, better, tells you what to do and who to be, all for a whopping $400.

Rich tried to stop her. Tried to protect another stupid teenager from throwing away his freewill like he had. But so long acting as a passenger in his own head makes it so much harder to resist, so she took his jaw and forced it to move, took his voice and forced it to speak.

So Jeremy got a SQUIP and scars of his own.

They make quite a spectacle for people with the right eyes. A group of teenagers looking like walking circuit boards in varying degrees of intensity. It’s unnerving at first, but they get used to it. People stop staring at Rich and his scars, or he stops noticing the stares.

They heal.

They make jokes.

They forget Michael never had a SQUIP. They forget he doesn’t know.

They’re at lunch, thinking up possible Halloween costumes for next year. The school year just started, but you can never be too prepared. Jeremy’s thinking out loud again.

“You know, these scars would look cool for part of a cyborg costume or something.”

It’s an offhand remark, delivered so flippantly Michael almost doesn’t notice what’s wrong with it until it replays in his head.

“Weren’t you a cyborg last year? Christine asks. She was the only person who was sober enough at the time to remember.

"What scars?” Michael takes a sip of his slushie. “Unless you’re talking about the one from when you–”

Jeremy’s voice cracks when he interrupts Michael with, “N-no, I mean the SQUIP ones.” He scratches lightly at one on his cheek. “Sucked when we got them, but, like, at least they look cool, right?”

Michael chokes. Rich pats him heavily on the back.

“What,” he begins after his lungs stop heaving. “What scars?”

“What do you–” Jeremy starts, only to be cut off by Brooke.

“Jeremy.” She levels a look at him, sweeping her blond hair from her eyes. “He doesn’t know.”

They forgot. They forgot he didn’t have a SQUIP. They forgot he doesn’t have special eyes. They forgot he doesn’t _know_.

The silence is deafening. Michael needs answers.

“You have scars?” His voice is high, panicky. His head whips around. He doesn’t know who to look at. “The SQUIP scarred you? All of you?”

They avoid his eyes. Christine places her hand over his gently, meeting Michael’s wide eyes and nodding. “Most of ours are faint.” Her eyes flicker away. “Except Rich and Jeremy.”

Michael’s head snaps from her to Jeremy to Rich so quickly they worry he’ll give himself whiplash. The forgotten slushie in his hand shakes.

“Hey, don’t worry, mine really aren’t that bad,” Jeremy tries, attempting a reassuring smile.

“I have a lot, but hey, I lived, right?” Rich grins easily. Michael feels sick.

“I can’t–” Michael stands abruptly. “I can’t–” Can’t finish his damn sentence, can’t think, can’t _see_

The group watches him leave, silence laying over them like a blanket.

Rich finds him later in a quiet, rarely used, corner of the library, hidden from faculty and students alike. His hair is mussed, sticking wildly out in several places, likely from anxious fingers combing through it over and over again. He’s lost in thought, headphones on but not playing any music. He was going to put on music. He forgot. He doesn’t notice Rich until he sits down beside him, leaning against the shelf.

“Why can’t I see them?” He asks quietly after a moment. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Somethin’ about having a SQUIP.” Rich shrugs. “Dunno why, but you can only see them after you’ve had one.”

“Is it– Can I–” Michael makes an exasperated noise, trying to organize his thoughts. “What do they look like?”

Rich gives him a half shrug. “Kinda like a circuit board.” He pauses, an idea forming in his head. He scoots so that he’s facing Michael and reaches for his hand. “Here, just–”

“What are you doing?” Michael asks cautiously, slowly extending his hand.

“I’m showing you what they look like.” Rich smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

“But you just told me why I can’t see them.”

“Yeah, so we’re gonna trace them. You’re gonna look with your fingers.” Rich’s brow furrows slightly, but he continues anyway. “That sounded better in my head.”

Michael snorts. Rich takes his hand gently and guides it towards his cheek before pausing. “You ready?” At Michael’s nod, he continues, tracing one of the more prominent SQUIP scars on his face.

It doesn’t feel like anything is there. Michael isn’t sure if he’s relieved about that or not. It extends outward from Rich’s right eye, then drops sharply down towards his jawline, ending in a little circle. Rich brings his hand up and they start down a new scar, a new pathway. Exactly like a circuit board.

“The burns cover some of them,” Rich says quietly after a few minutes. Michael hadn’t been aware he’d closed his eyes until they snap open again at the sound of his voice. Rich laughs softly, ruefully. “Well. A lot of them. Kinda fucked up, isn’t it? Only way I could get rid of ‘em was fire and that didn’t even cover it all. Just like evil Siri herself.”

“You needed Red to kill your psychotic Cortana. Maybe more Red will kill your scars.” He’s not sure if he’s saying this seriously or not. Neither of them are.

“Maybe.” Red. Red like discontinued sodas, red like the streak in his hair, red like blood, red like fire, red like passion, red like love, red like cherry slushies, red like Michael’s hoodie. Red like Michael. Maybe he did need more red.

“Do they hurt?” Michael’s voice is hesitant, his eyes averted. Rich realizes he’s still holding his hand.

“Nah,” he says, waving the concern away. “Hurt like a bitch when I got 'em but now they’re just sorta. There.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Michael looks like he’s thinking about something. Processing, Rich supppses. To be fair, it is a lot to take in.

With a determined nod to himself, Michael pushes the sleeve of his hoodie up past his elbow and for a moment, Rich is paralyzed with fear of what Michael may show him. But to his relief, Michael just points meekly at a big dark spot near his elbow and says quietly, “I got this from jumping off of the porch railing when I was eight. Never faded for whatever reason.”

That startles Rich into a laugh. “Why did you jump off the railing?”

“I was eight.” Michael shrugs. “I wanted to be like Batman.” Rich laughs again.

“Sorry, that– I don’t– I’m not–” Michael runs frustrated fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as he groans. “I’m not trying to make this about me or anything. I just–” He meets Rich’s eyes and looks away almost immediately, staring fixedly ahead. “I just don’t want you to feel alone.”

Rich finds himself shocked into silence.

Michael panics. “But I mean, why would you feel alone, you said everyone else has scars, too, right? Hah, just forget I s–”

“No, I mean,” Rich swallows, gathers his courage, hopes he doesn’t come off as too invasive. “I already know how they got theirs.” He shrugs, with a nonchalance and confidence he doesn’t feel. “I wanna know about yours, too.”

Michael looks up sharply, only to find Rich staunchly avoiding his gaze, instead studying one of the pro-reading posters hung on the end of the shelf in front of them. Slowly, he smiles. “Okay,” he says with a nod.

So they stay like that, swapping stories about scars until exasperated librarians finally come to kick them out so they can go home. They sit in Michael’s car outside of the nearest 711 for what’s probably universally considered too long. Neither of them can bring themselves care.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! ao3 formatting is something i need to figure out! i'm @bemorechillifries on tumblr! come scream with me!!


End file.
